


random newsies oneshots (from my tumblr)

by scarlettroses



Category: Newsies - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Canon Era, Fluff, M/M, from tumblr, mostly sad stories tbh, oneshots, there’s some character death in a couple bc i love crying
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-19 19:38:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 15,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15517128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarlettroses/pseuds/scarlettroses
Summary: just a few drabbles/oneshots that were requested on my tumblr. each chapter will have its own trigger warnings + summary.





	1. intro

welcome to a little collection of my request work on tumblr! 

i generally take dialogue prompts/sentence starters, and requests are usually open! i write for any newsies pairing except for reader insert because that’s just not my cup of tea. 

my url is @thefactsofthematter if you’d ever like to stop by and say hi or request something!

enjoy my short little writings and don’t cry too much at the angsty ones ;)


	2. jack wants a goat?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> @landlessbud requested: “why is there a goat in my bathroom?” with javid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so this totally isn’t my best work but i thought it was kinda funny! it’s only 800 words of modern au and it’s completely silly!
> 
> no trigger warnings, just jack being the ultimate chaotic neutral. 
> 
> enjoy!

Davey does this thing, when he’s annoyed.

It’s kind of funny. He’ll pinch the bridge of his nose, close his eyes, sigh deeply, and say:

“ _Jack_.”

This is normally when Jack stops whatever he’s doing to turn and face his boyfriend and pretend he’s done nothing wrong. Today, though, Jack is a little preoccupied and doesn’t even look up.

“Jack!” says Davey again, louder this time, making Jack’s head snap up to face him. “Just… don’t even make me ask what’s going on here. Please explain and _please_ say something that makes sense.”

Davey is standing in the doorway of the bathroom and he does not look amused. Jack, who is crouching next to the bathtub, simply shrugs one shoulder and responds:

“I don’t really see what you’re confused by here. Nothing seems weird to me.”

Davey does the _thing_ again, with a far deeper sigh than before.

“Jack, tell me…” He pauses for a second as if he’s incredulous of the words about to leave his mouth. “ **Why is there a goat in my bathroom?** ”

Jack runs a wet washcloth over the goat’s head and it bleats happily.

“Where the hell else am I supposed to give her a bath?” he asks, as if Davey is the crazy one here. “The kitchen sink?”

Davey opens his mouth likes he’s about to speak, closes it, sighs exasperatedly, and then opens it again.

“Why are you giving a goat a bath, Jack?” Before Jack can respond with something silly, he tacks on: “Where did it come from and why is it here?”

Jack, ever a menace, decides to respond with something silly anyways.

“Well, y’see, David… the answer is not so simple.” Jack is doing his best serious and professional voice while squirting shampoo onto a baby goat’s head, and he can see that Davey is totally over his bullshit. “Have you ever heard of the multiverse theory?”

Davey doesn’t even respond with words at this point. He just does the _thing_ once again and shakes his head.

“Well, in the world of theoretical physics—” Side note: Jack knows absolutely nothing about physics. Race is just really smart and had rambled to him about this once. “My good friend Stephen Hawking has this theory.”

“Your good friend?” interrupts Davey, but Jack shushes him.

“Shh, it doesn’t matter. Anyways… if Mr. Hawking is to be believed, there’s an infinite number of universes where I’m _not_ washing a goat in the bathtub. We just _happen_ to be in the one where I am. Couldn’t tell ya why, it’s just how the randomness of the universe works out. I don’t expect you to understand.”

Davey doesn’t seem particularly impressed by Jack’s faux-condescending tone and ridiculous answer.

“This is also the universe,” he states in a very menacing tone, “where I murder you if you don’t give me a straight fucking answer, Jack Kelly.”

The goat bleats again and Jack awkwardly pats her on the head while Davey glares at him.

“Okay, fine!” he whines. “You know how Race and I went out to his aunt’s farm today to help her build a fence? We might have adopted a goat while we were at it. Today is her turn at our place and Race will take her tomorrow. We’re sharing custody.”

Davey’s silence can’t possibly be a good sign. He’s probably really mad, considering all the fucking nonsense Jack has just been spouting. Jack is about to get dumped, isn’t he?

“Does his aunt know you guys adopted one of her goats?”

Jack gives Davey a look that he hopes reads as ‘ _please don’t kill me._ ’

“There’s an infinity of universes where she does?” he squeaks. “We’re… unfortunately not in one of them.”

Jack probably deserves the smack Davey lands on the back of his head.

“First thing tomorrow morning,” says Davey. “You two are driving your asses to her farm and giving back her goat.”

Jack whines and makes the mistake of picking up the soaking wet goat to cradle her against his chest, thus managing to drench his t-shirt with soapy water.

“I was gonna let you name her,” he whines, and he swears he sees a hint of fondness behind Davey’s exasperation. “Because you’re my favourite person and I love you.”

“Well I’m sorry,” says Davey. “She’s going back to the farm in the morning.” He pauses and finally gives in to the adorable sight in front of him. Jack has just kissed the goat on the head and holy shit, it was cute. “Maybe if we had a backyard… If we get a house together someday, I promise you can have a goat.”

Jack beams up at Davey with the brightest smile he’s ever seen, and Davey can’t fucking wait to marry him someday and raise an entire herd of goats together.


	3. would i let you down? no way.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous requested: “what if one day i wake up and you don’t?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: character death, serious illness. 
> 
> 1.1k of jackcrutchie sadness. it’s a lot. i cried writing it.

Jack hasn’t opened his eyes in nearly twenty-four hours.

He’s been sick five days already now, and he only seems to be getting worse. He’s gone from not being able to sleep— kept awake by a horrible cough and chills that made his whole body tremble— to sleeping most of the day away. His fever has gotten higher and higher, and his coughing has diminished not because he’s healing, but because he’s grown too weak to even force himself to do it. He simply lies in bed, his chest wheezing on every inhale and rattling on the accompanying exhales. He looks more like a child than Crutchie has ever seen him, with no pretences to keep up. He looks like exactly what he is: a scared, sick, dying child.

Crutchie has spent a lot of time sitting at Jack’s bedside lately, wanting to help but not sure how to do it.

All the other boys are out selling, but Crutchie had offered to stay back and care for Jack. He’d claimed he was having leg pain, what with the cold weather making it stiffer than usual, but that’s perhaps a slight twist of the truth. He’s mostly just worried— and this is a bit gruesome— that he’ll leave to sell papers and return in the evening to Jack’s lifeless body. His stomach twists whenever he has to do so much as leave to go to the bathroom. He couldn’t possibly go out all day, as he knows he’d make himself sick with worry.

It’s nearly noon, and Jack has been sleeping since dinner time yesterday. It might be time to try again to wake him up, to get him to eat or drink.

“Jack,” says Crutchie softly, reaching out to push Jack’s sweaty hair off of his burning forehead. “Are you there? Can you wake up for me? You gotta open your eyes now.”

Other times, there’s been absolutely no response. Now, Jack’s face scrunches up under Crutchie’s touch and he lets out some kind of pained whining noise. That’s progress, at least.

“Jackie…” Crutchie tries again, now simply cupping Jack’s cheek and doing his best to be encouraging. “You been sleeping for a long time, okay? It’s time to wake up. I know you can do it for me. Just open your eyes.”

Slowly but surely, Jack’s eyes peel open. They’re glassy and absent, like he’s looking around but not seeing anything— but hey, at least they’re open.

“Crutchie?” he asks, hardly more than a whisper. His eyes are searching frantically for where Crutchie might be, but he’s so disoriented that he can’t seem to find him.

“I’m right here, Jack,” responds Crutchie, taking one of Jack’s hands in between both of his own and squeezing gently. “I’m here, you’re alright.”

Jack’s eyes land on Crutchie and he visibly relaxes.

“Charlie,” he whines, clearly fighting to even keep his eyes open. Crutchie has to stop himself from flinching at the mention of his real name— it’s not something he hears much of anymore. Poor Jack looks confused and scared, like he might start crying. Now that he’s found Crutchie, his eyes are locked there, like he’d disappear if he looked away. “It hurts… I don’t feel good.” He pauses for a long moment, in which he just stares at Crutchie with half-lidded eyes, seemingly trying to muster up the energy to talk again. When he does speak, it’s hardly even audible. “I’m dying, ain’t I?”

Crutchie has never felt his stomach sink so quickly. Not when he realized he was going to the Refuge during the strike, not any time he’s been jumped by the Delanceys or other mean, nasty street kids. He’s never felt cold panic spring onto him like this before.

“No, Jack,” he breathes out, immediately. “You ain’t dying on me, not today, not any time soon. You’re gonna be just fine— you’re just a little sick, is all. You’ll be okay.”

Jack looks up at Crutchie with a wobbly frown, like he’s not sure he believes that.

“You swear it?” he asks, his voice small and childlike. “You promise me, Crutchie?”

Crutchie nods, because he can’t bring himself to lie out loud by saying yes. He squeezes Jack’s hand and tries not to cry.

“Would I let you down, Jack?” he asks, smiling gently down at him. This is almost like a code between them— meaning one will do his very best to keep his promise to the other, but it’s no guarantee. “Huh? No way.”

Jack tugs weakly on Crutchie’s hand as his eyes start to slip closed again.

“Can you…” Jack struggles to put words together. “Can you…” He doesn’t finish his sentence, but Crutchie knows him well enough to understand.

_Can you lie down with me?_ is what he’s trying to ask. Crutchie smiles and lets Jack pull him closer, despite knowing that he could very well be contagious and he’s putting himself at risk. He doesn’t care anymore, really. He’ll do whatever he has to to keep Jack comfortable.

“Roll over a little,” he says, and then Crutchie is sliding into Jack’s bunk, allowing Jack to curl into him. “Keep on resting, okay? I’ll be right here. Go to sleep.”

Jack does just that. Within a matter of minutes, his breathing has gone back to the precarious wheezing and rattling from before. He’s out cold.

“I don’t know how you expect me to sleep,” mumbles Crutchie, despite knowing that Jack can’t hear him. “ **What if one day I wake up and you don’t?** What am I supposed to do?”

He runs his hand along the back of Jack’s head and sighs shakily, trying to fight the tears welling up in his eyes.

“I don’t know what I’d do, Jack,” he whispers. “Go crazy missing you, probably. Maybe I’d end up sick myself somehow. Can grief do that, y’think? Make you sick?” He pauses a long second and shakes his head. “I’m crazy already, I guess. Lying here, talking to myself. You’re driving me insane, Jackie.”

Crutchie is quiet after that, for a long while. Just as he thinks he might be falling asleep, he leans down and presses a little kiss to Jack’s warm, flushed cheek.

It’s not often they get time alone, where they can do things like that. It felt important to do it now.

~

Jack doesn’t wake up when Crutchie does, later that night.

He doesn’t wake up the next morning, either, or the next afternoon. Not even the next evening.

And it’s the middle of the night, following a whole day of unconsciousness, that it becomes clear that Jack won’t wake up again.

He’s gone.


	4. the sad ralbert one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous requested: “please stay with me” and “is that blood?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the story of how albert came to live in the lodging house. takes place about a year before canon. 
> 
> warnings: discussion of child abuse, blood, minor injuries
> 
> another fuckin sad one, it’s what i do best.

“Why do you keep going back to him, Albie? Why don’t you just… run away? He ain’t treatin’ you right. You don’t deserve none of the shit he does to you.”

Race isn’t sure why he feels a tight coil of guilt in his stomach— as if he’s done something wrong, even when he knows he hasn't— but it twists as Albert shakes his head minutely and his gaze drops to their intertwined hands.

“You don’t get it, Race,” he says, his voice soft but unwavering. They’re sitting on the cold, metal fire escape outside the lodging house, their bodies pressed together to try and share body heat. It’s worth braving the cold weather to get some privacy. “He’s my old man. I got a family when so many kids don’t… How could I just walk away from that, on purpose?”

Race lets go of Albert’s hand in order to cup his cheeks between both palms and gently brush his thumb along the giant bruise on the side of his face. It’s a deep purple and incredibly swollen— Race is careful to hardly even touch it because it’s got to be very painful.

“A family don’t do this to you,” Race whispers, shaking his head. “Not one what loves you, at least.” He pauses for a while, staring at Albert, who’s still looking down at his hand, where Race’s used to be. “Albert, I know my folks is still alive out there somewhere, but that don’t make ‘em my family. Not when they beat me the way they did. They ain’t ever loved me and I knew it, so I ran as soon as I could. Ain’t no family what hurts a kid like that.”

Albert swallows thickly and if Race didn’t know him and his refusal to show emotion so well, he’d swear Albert was about to cry.

“I can’t do that, Racer,” he says, sounding almost like he’s ashamed to say it. “He just lost his job. It’s been less than a year since my brother died. What I make just _barely_ covers the rent now— if I left he’d be homeless. You gotta understand… I can’t do that to him, at least not until he finds a job again.”

Race does understand, and that’s the painful part of this. He knows what Albert is struggling with. The poor kid is trapped between a rock and a hard place. He has to choose between being free but guilty, or staying trapped with his father but feeling like he’s doing the right thing. It’s just shitty, is what it is.

“Just for tonight,” whispers Race, “stay here. I’ll sneak you in, you can bunk with me. It won’t cost you a cent.” He pauses, frowning when Albert shakes his head. “I just… I don’t want you goin’ back there still bruised like this— I don’t wanna see it worse tomorrow. _**Please stay with me.**_ ”

Albert pushes Race’s hands off of him and shakes his head more vehemently.

“ _No_ , Race. He got mad yesterday because I ain’t brought enough money home, but it was an easier sell today— I got more now. It should be fine, he won’t hurt me. It’s already late, I have to go.”

As Albert starts to stand up, Race grabs his hands to stop him.

“Just… be careful. If it’s gonna be dangerous at home, come back here. Please?” Race speaks softly and smiles hesitantly upwards. Albert’s pinched, angry expression softens into a loving one. “I love you.”

Albert grins, despite the fact that it must be painful to even move his face, and leans back down towards Race. After making sure they’re crouched well below the sill of the window they’d snuck out of, away from the view of any boys inside, he presses a kiss to Race’s lips.

“I love you too,” he whispers. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Everything’s gonna be fine.”

-

Race decides to stay by himself on the fire escape that night, rather than going inside to his bunk.

_Heavy-hearted_ is the only way to describe how he’s feeling tonight, and he doesn’t want any of the little newsies to see him this upset. He’s not angry with Albert for leaving, he’s not angry with himself for being clingy; he’s just emotionally drained from the whole situation. It’s tiring, when life is this fucking hard.

It’s cold outside tonight, but not so cold that he can’t spend the night out here— there’s no snow or anything. Jack has peeked out a few times and asked Race to come in so he doesn’t catch a chill, but he’d eventually relented and just tossed a couple of blankets out to him.

Race and Jack don’t have to talk about these things— they just understand when the other is upset and needs space. They’ve known each other a long time, it’s a special kind of bond. Race had accepted the blankets with what lacklustre smile he could manage, and Jack had simply offered a sympathetic look in return. There was nothing they even had to say, really.

It’s been about an hour, maybe two, since Albert left, when Race is finally starting to doze off. Sleep hasn’t come easily to him tonight— he’s too worried about everything that could be going wrong just a few blocks away at Albert’s place.

Just as his eyes start to close, the fire escape shakes with the weight of what can only be a footstep on one of the lower stairs. Race snaps his eyes open and sits up, all his senses immediately on high alert. The window right next to him is unlocked— he can dive inside if he has to.

There’s somewhat of a pause, followed by another footstep. Hesitantly, Race climbs to his feet and waits it out for another few seconds. The mysterious person slowly climbs another few steps. Just as Race is about to sneak back inside to avoid whoever this may be, he hears a painfully familiar voice groan: “ _Shit_.”

Like lightning, Race is sprinting down the steps.

“Albert…” he breathes out, as soon as he’s face-to-face with his boyfriend, who’d been trying— albeit, in vain— to limp up the stairs. “Oh, babe…” He trails off as he takes in his appearance, vaguely illuminated by a streetlight a few feet away. “ _ **Is that blood?**_ ”

Race isn’t sure why he’s asking, because blood would be the only explanation for what’s dripping out of Albert’s nose.

Albert doesn’t answer— he simply steps forward into Race’s waiting arms and lets out an awful, heart-wrenching sob.

“Albie, sweetheart,” mumbles Race, totally out of his depth and trying to gently rub Albert’s back. He’s never seen his boyfriend cry before and he’s hating every second of it. “What happened?”

It takes a while for Albert to collect himself enough to even sob out an answer.

“He was yellin’ at me for being out so late…” He trails off into tears once again, but he tries to catch his breath to continue. “And then he hit me real hard, but I thought about what you said, Racer— that he ain’t treating me right and I should leave. So I got up and _ran_ , I came back here just like you told me. I don’t wanna stay with him anymore, Race.”

Race, overwhelmed by all of the information, takes a deep breath and nods, trying to decide what to do next.

"Are you hurt real bad?” he asks. “Can you get up the stairs or should I go wake up some of the fellas to come help? Do you need a doctor?”

Albert just hides his face in Race’s shoulder and takes a deep breath, clearly trying to stop crying.

“I’m okay,” he finally says, his voice cracking slightly. “I just… I think I twisted my ankle runnin’ here, and my nose was bleedin’ where he hit me. But I’m okay. I just wanna sleep.”

Race lets out a relieved breath that he hadn’t even known he’d been holding— Albert is just a little beat up. He’ll be sore, but he’ll be fine.

“Let’s go, then,” he says, taking Albert’s hand and slowly starting up the fire escape with him. “It’s all gonna be okay. We’ll get you all sorted out in the morning. Let’s just sleep, now.”


	5. how the musical should have gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> no one even requested this but i wanted kath to punch jack instead of kissing him

“And I _never_ lied.” Katherine pauses and then continues sheepishly. “I… didn’t tell you everything.”

Jack is so frustrated, that he has to look away and try to compose himself. He groans in annoyance and folds his hands together. If this were one of his boys trying to talk to him like this, they’d have gotten what’s coming to them already.

“If you weren’t a girl,” he grumbles, “you’d be tryin’ to talk with a _fist_ in your mouth.”

He turns around and grabs onto the railing that surrounds the rooftop, overlooking the dirty streets of Manhattan— the streets where he’ll be damned if he ever shows his face again, with the embarrassment he’s just made of himself at the rally.

“Look,” says Katherine, with a unique kind of mix between guilt and anger lacing her words. “I told you that I worked for The Sun, and I do. I told you that my professional name is _Plumber_ , and it is. You _never_ asked my real one.”

Jack spins around to face her, in utter disbelief at her naivety.

“I wouldn’t think I had to,” he yells, just barely holding himself back from shoving her back by the shoulders, “unless I knew I was dealing with a _backstabber_!”

Katherine gasps affrontedly and Jack can’t fathom what she has to be mad about. She isn’t the one who was _betrayed_ by someone she trusted.

“And if I was a boy,” she yells, “you’d be looking at me though one swollen eye!”

She advances on him with a raised fist, and Jack lets her. He leans back against the railing and lets her press her fist right under his chin, as if she actually knows how to throw a punch. If he weren’t so angry, this might be adorably endearing.

“Don’t let that stop you,” he challenges, grabbing her wrist and pressing her hand more aggressively against his throat. It catches her off-guard, and she instinctively pulls back like she’s scared to hurt him. “Gimme your best shot!”

Jack’s not sure what he expected to come from that.

Maybe he thought she’d just storm off and go home to Daddy, to reveal more of Jack’s goddamn secrets to him.

Maybe he thought she’d apologize and then respectfully go and leave Jack the hell alone.

Maybe he thought she’d start crying or something, and they could talk this out being a little less angry.

He certainly didn’t expect her to pull back and deck him in the side of the face.

She doesn’t even punch him that hard, really— as to be expected, she’s not actually particularly strong. It’s the surprise of it that makes Jack drop like a sack of potatoes and fall on his ass, clutching his cheek. He’s lucky he doesn’t stumble back over the railing and splat like a pile of garbage on the street.

Katherine seems as surprised with herself as Jack is— she takes several hurried steps back and then stares down at her own hands like she can’t believe they’ve just done that.

“ _Shit_!” yells Jack, still sitting and holding his face. It’s a culmination of all the frustration he’s feeling, as well as in response to the dull, throbbing pain now present in his face. He’s not going to cry. Jack isn’t going to cry, not in front of Katherine. He settles for yelling again. “ _Fuck_!”

_Way to go, Jack,_ he thinks to himself. _Cursing in front of a lady. What a way to end this disaster of a day._

“Jack, I— I don’t know why I did that.” Katherine stands there, staring at him for a moment longer, before suddenly rushing over to his side and dropping to her knees. “God, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

Jack wipes frantically at his eyes as she gets close to him, as the mix of physical pain and emotional turmoil is causing him to tear up more quickly than he can wipe it away.

“I’m fine,” he says, his own voice betraying him when it cracks. He groans in frustration and turns away from her. “Just leave, _please_.”

Katherine’s awkwardness gets the better of her and she just kind of… sits there. She opens and closes her mouth several times, like there’s something she wants to say, but she ultimately just rests a hand on his shoulder.

“I really, really don’t know why I did that.” She pauses and then hesitantly reaches out to touch his cheek. For some reason, Jack doesn’t flinch away. “Oh no, did I hurt you?”

Jack laughs somewhat bitterly, somewhat genuinely.

“You can really pack a punch, Plumber,” is all he says, in what’s mostly sarcasm but is also slightly fond. Along with most of his dignity, she seems to have punched some of his anger right out of him. He’s less angry with her, and more so with himself for getting them all into this whole mess.

“To be fair,” says Katherine, after a moment, as blunt as ever. “You did _tell_ me to do it.”

Jack cracks a smile at that and nods, wiping away the last few tears from his cheeks.

“Yeah… I s’pose I brought that upon myself.” He finally looks up at her, and he’s not seeing red-around-the-edges anymore. He doesn’t see a villain, someone not to be trusted. He sees… her. His friend, just doing what she thought was best. Jack sighs. “Shit… I’m sorry… for, y’know, yelling at you. And, uh, makin’ you mad enough to punch me.”

Katherine manages a laugh now too, and Jack hadn’t really noticed just how nice her eyes are— not until seeing them in this moonlight.

“I’ll never understand you, Jack Kelly,” she says, shaking her head. She has a lot of good reasons to say it, so he just smiles sheepishly.

She goes quiet after that, knelt in front of him and staring intently at his face. It’s totally silent between them for a moment, and Jack isn’t sure what to do with that.

Suddenly, Katherine’s lips are on his. She’s grabbed him by the cheeks— one of which is still aching— and planted one on him. He hardly recovers from his shock in time to kiss her back.

It feels like it’s only been half a second of bliss, when she pulls away just as suddenly as she’d initiated it. Jack leans in to keep it going, but she holds his shoulders firmly at an arm’s length.

“You didn’t cave for the money, did you?” she asks, staring him down. Jack swallows thickly and just barely shakes his head.

“You heard your father,” he says, after a beat, speaking just above a whisper. His voice is heavily strung with emotion and he hates it. “No matter how many days we strike, he’ll still stomp us into the ground. I don’t know what else we can do at this point.”

He averts his eyes and doesn’t even notice the way Katherine lights up.

“Ah…” she says, smiling and touching his jaw to recapture his attention. “But I do.”

 


	6. nothing always leads to something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous requested: “please stay with me.”
> 
> anonymous requested: “if i die, i’m never talking to you again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1.3k; some canon era javid fluff that was so sweet it made my teeth rot; no trigger warnings!

“Why do you do so much homework, Davey? Surely it ain’t very fun.”

Jack is leaning on Davey’s windowsill, having climbed up the fire escape to get there. He’s come calling, just like he does on most Friday nights, trying to convince Davey to come out and do something with him. What exactly he wants to do, Davey isn’t totally sure, but he knows Jack likes to take Friday nights off from selling to just do… _something_. Davey has never actually joined him to find out.

“It’s _not_ fun,” sighs Davey, looking down at the piles of arithmetic, geography, chemistry, history, and much more on his desk, “but I have to do it.”

Jack gives Davey somewhat of a quizzical look, and the differences between them suddenly become glaringly obvious. Jack has never been to school, he can’t possibly understand the importance of the work Davey is doing.

“But why?” asks Jack, genuinely curious. “Ever since you went back to school, you don’t ever take breaks, Dave. You’s still a kid— don’t you ever play?”

Davey looks up at Jack with a condescending frown.

“ _Play_?” he asks, and then he scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Jack, I’m nearly an adult. I can’t play, there’s work to be done. I have to work if I want a scholarship, or else I won’t be able to go to college and I won’t be able to have a good job someday. Just leave me alone. I have a lot of work to do.”

Jack sighs rather dejectedly as Davey turns his attention back to his notebook.

“Alright,” says Jack, and though he sounds disappointed, he’s clearly not going to argue with Davey. “I’ll be off, then. I hope you have fun doing your… _work_. See ya at morning sell tomorrow.”

Davey only sells papers on weekends now— Saturday morning and evening, as well as the one paper that goes out on Sundays— and he does it as quickly as possible, in order to get back to his books. He hardly ever has lunch with the boys anymore, and he hasn’t been to the lodging house to visit in ages. Adulthood is starting to creep onto him, and he hadn’t even noticed it happening.

“Wait,” says Davey, reaching out to touch Jack’s hand before he can leave the window. He’s not sure what’s come over him— he tells himself it’s pure curiosity over where Jack is going, not some strange desire to join him. “Where are you going? You’ve never said where you go on Fridays.”

Jack shrugs, and there’s a look in his eye that Davey doesn’t quite understand. It’s a playful kind of gleam that only someone who’s still a child at heart can manage.

“Nowhere in particular,” he says, and to Davey’s dismay, he doesn’t elaborate. He simply turns to leave again.

“Well,” continues Davey, gripping Jack’s fingers this time. He’s leaning over his desk to reach the window, crumpling all his papers. He mentally scolds himself for it but then, to his own surprise, he mentally tells that little voice in his head to stuff it. He misses his best friend and he just wants to know what he’s up to. “What are you gonna do, nowhere in particular?”

Jack turns back around to the window, leans down onto the sill, and grins.

“ _Nothing_. You’re sure you don’t wanna join me?”

Davey opens his mouth as if to speak, closes it, opens it again, and finally just stares Jack down with an utterly confused look.

“You’re going _nowhere_ , to do _nothing_? What does that even mean? You might as well just stay here and bother me at that point!” Davey groans softly as he lets go of Jack’s hand and slumps in his chair. “God, Jack, I’m so bored. _**Please stay with me.**_ ”

Jack is an expert at conveying things with his face, rather than using words. The look he gives Davey screams: _You know that’s not what you want_. He watches Davey for a moment with that unnerving look and then shakes his head.

“Ain’t no way I’m sitting in your stuffy room to watch you do homework,” says Jack with a laugh. “I’ve got plans to go do nothing, whether you join me or not.” When Davey gives him a questioning look, he continues. “You know, doing nothing usually leads to the best something. If you don’t make a plan, you can just do whatever fun things come your way! I swear it’ll be a good time.”

Davey swallows thickly, looks down at all his now-crumpled papers, and then looks back up to Jack. He’s never snuck out before, but pretty soon he’ll be all grown up and he’ll have missed his chance to try it. He hesitates for a moment more, and then slams his notebook full of Latin phrases and Roman numerals shut.

"I’ll come,” he says, trying to make his voice firm, but it shakes a little with nerves. “I’ve been working hard all week— I’d fucking love to do nothing with you.”

-

A couple of hours later, Jack and Davey are standing on the Brooklyn bridge, watching the sunset. They’ve spent the evening wandering around and doing whatever they felt like— they’d chased some birds around the park like absolute children, and Jack had even found a couple pennies to buy some ice cream to share.

Altogether, Davey is rather happy he’d snuck out tonight, despite the fact that he’s missed out on a full evening of revision for his upcoming history test.

It’s gone quiet between the two of them, and they’re simply content to take in the view. Unfortunately, you can’t really expect that to last with Jack around.

“Watch this,” says Jack, and suddenly, he’s starting to climb over the railing. Davey swears he’s about to have an aneurysm.

“What are you doing?” he squeaks, not sure whether he should grab Jack and pull him back, or just let him do his thing. “Jack, I swear to God!”

Jack has swung both his legs over and is now sitting on the railing, his feet dangling over two hundred feet above the water.

“It’s fine, Davey,” he says, turning back to look at Davey with that same carefree glint in his eye. “So long as you hold on, it’s totally safe! Try it!”

Davey hesitates, but he really can never resist Jack Kelly. He sighs and swings one leg over.

“ _ **If I die, I’m never speaking to you again**_ ,” he says as he pushes himself up. His heart is pounding in his ears, even as Jack wraps an arm around him. _Just don’t look down_ , he tells himself on repeat. _Keep your eyes on the horizon_.

“I’ve got you,” whispers Jack, leaning his head onto Davey’s shoulder. “It’s okay.”

Somehow, those words are quite convincing. Davey feels slightly more at ease, and he lets himself relax and take in the view. The sun is setting over the city and it’s really quite gorgeous. Davey is coming to understand why Jack likes painting so much— it makes sense to want to hold onto a view like this for forever.

“I’m really happy,” he whispers, after a while. “You’re incredible, Jackie. This was all real nice.”

Jack is quiet for a moment.

A lot goes unspoken between the two of them, you see, because they both know how they feel but they’ve never said it out loud. There’s a unique kind of love and connection that they’re both incredibly aware of, and it almost feels like they don’t need to say it. They just _know_.

“You deserve to be happy,” is Jack’s response. “I want you to always be happy. You’re welcome to come do nothing with me anytime.”

There’s too many people walking past for Davey to lean over and kiss Jack, but he most certainly does it as he sneaks back in through his window later that night.

Maybe growing up can wait a while. Life doesn’t need to go so fast all the time— Davey resolves that night that he’s going to take a bit more time just to live, preferably with Jack by his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to leave comments/kudos and also to send requests to my tumblr!!!


	7. sprace - am i going to be ok?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous requested: “am i going to be okay?” with sprace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1.2k; canon era sprace; it gets very sad; warnings: character death, injuries, car accident

_Brooklyn, NY._

_August, 1909._

Spot had never really liked the idea of Race’s career. From the day Race had brought it up to him, years ago, Spot had been a bit nervous of the idea.

“ _Look at this, Spot. Automobile racing— they go twice as fast as any horse! Ain’t that insane?_ ”

Spot can clearly remember seeing an excited sixteen year-old Race holding up a newspaper article about a car that had driven a mile in less than a minute on Coney Island. He’d vowed that he’d be a race car driver someday, and he’d spent the rest of his teenage years fascinated by any type of motor vehicle.

From the very first time he’d finally gotten behind the wheel, an opportunity that Kath had pulled a few strings to arrange for him, he’d been a natural at handling a car. Driving had become his whole life practically overnight. It was his fearlessness that made him so good— he was always willing to try and go faster, to pull turns and tricks that had never been attempted.

It should’ve been clear from the beginning that his fearlessness could put him in danger someday.

Now Spot sits quietly at Race’s bedside, not sure what to with himself. He can’t get too close, he can’t hold Race’s hand, because they’d be in big trouble if a nurse or doctor were to see something they shouldn’t. He just has to sit… he has to keep on pretending as if they’re cousins, like he’d claimed in order to be allowed into the room. Pretending as if he’s not watching the love of his life fade away.

Race is totally unconscious. The doctor has said he _might_ wake up sometime soon, just for a moment or two, but not to count on it. It’s not even likely that he’ll make it to see tomorrow morning, with the state he’s in.

It had been a truly horrific accident on the speedway today. The only explanation anyone can offer is that he was simply driving _too_ _fast_ — he’d lost control of the vehicle and it had crashed, flipped upside-down and subsequently caught on fire. It’s a miracle that Race had even made it out of the car and to the hospital alive.

If there’s anything positive to think of right now, Spot is really, really glad today wasn’t a day that Jack or Davey or any of their friends had decided to bring their kids out to watch their Uncle Race drive.

Spot had mostly zoned out while the doctor was listing off injuries, but he does recall hearing of a broken back and many, many third-degree burns. There’s bandages up and down Race’s arms and legs, wrapped around his chest, and even some on his head. It’s painful to even look at him when he seems so fragile and delicate.

There’s a hitch in his breath every time he inhales— the doctor claims it’s a sign of serious damage to his lungs, but Race’s body is too fragile for them to even prop him up for a chest x-ray. Spot is starting to figure that was the doctor’s roundabout way of saying that they won’t even try because there’ll be no way to save him.

Spot is suddenly jerked out of his depressing thoughts when he looks up to see none other than Jack Kelly pushing past the curtain that surrounds Race’s bed and the few chairs next to it.

“Thanks, miss,” he says to the nurse who’s guided him here, before his eyes land on Spot and he says: “I came as fast as I could. How are things?”

Spot can do nothing more than shake his head, his throat closing up with unshed tears.

He watches Jack’s face fall when he finally takes in Race’s appearance. The bruises and cuts on his sleeping face, the bandages covering his body— it’s a lot to handle, all at once. Jack and Race have always had a brotherly kind of relationship and it must be destroying Jack to see him like this.

“I’m sorry I took so long to get here,” says Jack, after a moment. It’s funny to listen to how much his voice has changed in recent years— he spends much more time among high society now and a lot of his heavy accent has faded. “I got your call just as I was leaving the office. I had to pick Cora up from school and get home to Kath and the little ones. Harry’s got a bad cold, so that was a handful in itself, and the twins are as hectic as ever.” Jack rubs his eyes and takes a deep breath, letting his exhaustion show for just a moment. “But this is… so awful, Spotty. How did it happen? He just… crashed?”

Spot finally swallows the lump in his throat as he nods.

“Yeah, I figure he was tryin’ to make the car go faster than the engine was meant to handle. He lost control of it.” Spot reaches out to simply rest his fingers on top of Race’s, an innocent enough action. “We’s lucky he’s even here long enough for us to say goodbye, really. The doc figures most folks wouldn’t'a survived for this long after the crash.”

Jack all but collapses into the chair next to Spot.

“They can’t help him? The doctors and nurses and all their fancy shit? There’s gotta be some way.”

The silence that follows that speaks volumes. There is no way. They both know it.

“I kept tellin’ him he was gonna get himself killed, driving like that,” mumbles Spot. “I ain’t thought he’d really listen.”

Jack sighs quietly and when Spot looks over at him, for the first time, he doesn’t see a kid. He doesn’t see that earnest seventeen year-old, whose spirit Jack has always been able to hang onto. He just sees a tired, upset, grown-up _man_. A man who’s nearly thirty, who’s a husband and a father, and who has lost too many fucking people in his lifetime.

Spot’ll be damned if he can’t relate to that last bit.

Jack doesn’t even meet Spot’s eyes when he asks:

“So if he ain’t gonna be okay… are _you_ gonna be okay, Sean?”

Spot can’t even find it in himself to be annoyed at the use of his given name. He almost laughs incredulously at the question.

“ ** _Am I going to be okay?_** ” He swallows thickly and shakes his head. “Probably fuckin’ not.” He sighs. “Tony’s the only thing keeping me goin’, most of the time. Not sure what I’ll do now.”

Spot swears it might be some kind of sign from God himself when Race’s fingers twitch underneath his at that exact moment. He doesn’t wake up, he doesn’t make a sound, he just twitches. It’s almost like a hint that Race is listening. He’s here, he’ll always be here for Spot.

If Spot breaks down in tears right there and then, neither he nor Jack will ever mention it again. And when Spot breaks down again at the funeral, Jack is right there, rubbing his back and trying to keep him upright.

When he breaks down alone, however, back at what used to be his and Race’s apartment, there’s no one there to help him through it anymore.

Spot doesn’t think he’ll ever be okay without Race holding him together.


	8. javid - happier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous said: KEEP YOUR EYES OPEN WITH JAVID PLEASE OH MY GOD THANK YOU
> 
> Anonymous said: dude… i need that good davey jacobs angst… like… the Good Kush ™
> 
> Anonymous said: For the ‘soft angst’ prompts - “I’ll be right here, don’t worry” for javid?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some sad canon era javid stuff + a first kiss because i just can’t resist it
> 
> 1.3k; angst with a sad ending; no warnings apply except maybe internalized homophobia?? but like barely even; this is totally unedited im tired as hell

The only thing scarier than doing something for the first time, in Davey’s opinion, is doing something for the last time.

Firsts are scary, because you don’t know what you’re getting into. But firsts are full of hope, a new beginning. They’re a moment of courage and optimism. They’re faith and inspiration and positivity.

Lasts are scary for a different reason. They’re the end of an era. They’re uncertainty and fragility. The worst part of lasts is that you never know when they’re coming. Any moment you share with someone could be your last together. You’ll never see it coming.

This is why Davey sits so still and silent, up in Jack’s penthouse in the sky. He hadn’t climbed up here thinking it would be his last visit. He hadn’t thought he’d be seeing Jack for the last time tonight.

And yet… that’s how life tends to go. Lasts come out of nowhere and catch you off-guard.

“Davey?” asks Jack, his voice as soft and broken as Davey feels. “I… I’m sorry. I should’ve told you sooner.”

Davey can’t even find it within himself to be angry. All he can do is nod, as if to tell Jack _yeah, you should’ve_.

“So this is real?” he asks, after a moment. “In the morning, you’ll be gone?”

He’s not sure why he’s asking. He can see that all of Jack’s possessions, as few as there are, are stuffed into a bag. He saw the train ticket, timestamped for tomorrow morning, destined for New Mexico.

Of course it’s real.

“You know I’m gettin’ too old for papes,” sighs Jack, sitting down next to Davey and joining him in staring out at the city. “The lodging house is for kids— I’ll be an adult in less than a week. I can’t stay here, so where else am I gonna go? It’s either sleepin’ on the streets here in New York, or doin’ the same thing in Santa Fe an’ I know damn well where I’d rather be.” He pauses and his voice comes out a lot quieter when he continues. “This is the only chance I’ll have to get outta this stinkin’ city.”

Davey swallows the lump in his throat and nods yet again. Jack had sounded so scared, so sad, with that last sentence. As if he really, truly believes this is his only shot at leaving New York. That he has to do this now, or he never will. It could be true, for all they know. This could be his only shot.

Davey finally turns to Jack and tries his best to offer him a small smile.

“I’m happy for you, Jackie.”

Davey’s voice betrays him when it shakes with emotion, but the statement is true. He really is happy for Jack. It’s a first that he’s stepping toward. It’ll be good for him, as hard as this last is to handle right now. He’s apparently not convincing enough though, because Jack’s gaze drops, his eyes squeeze shut, and a tear begins to trail down his cheek.

“Hey,” continues Davey, reaching out and grabbing Jack’s shoulders before gently cupping his chin and brushing the tear away with his thumb. “Look at me. **_Keep your eyes open.”_** He doesn’t keep talking until Jack has opened his eyes to look at him— their hazel colour appearing brighter in contrast against the tears welling up. Jack tries to blink the tears away and Davey finds himself doing the same. “I _am_ happy, Jack. You’ve wanted this for so long. I— I don’t know… Of course I’m sad that you’re leaving, but you’re gonna be so happy there. You’re doing the right thing.”

Jack swallows heavily as he shuts his eyes again. He’s trembling under Davey’s touch as tears roll down his cheeks. Davey has never seen him so vulnerable and scared and it breaks his fucking heart.

“What if I’m _not_?” Jack finally asks, his eyes still closed, his voice small and terrified. “What if I’m making a mistake? What if I’m not happy?”

Davey can’t help but lean in a little closer, so close that their faces are almost touching.

“ _Come home_ ,” he whispers, his hand still cupping Jack’s face. “If you don’t like it, you can save up for another train ticket and come home. **_I’ll be right here, don’t worry._** You’re always welcome with me, okay?”

As Davey speaks, Jack suddenly wraps him up in a tight hug. They’re both crying a little as they hold each other close, up on the rooftop where no one can find them.

It’s… romantic, Davey thinks, as his soft interactions with Jack so often seem. They’ve never really talked about it, but there’s no denying the sense of more-than-friendship between them. There’s something there. It’s something they don’t acknowledge or understand, but it’s certainly, undeniably _there_.

“I’ll miss you,” whispers Jack, hiding his face in Davey’s neck. He goes even quieter and holds Davey even tighter when he adds: “I love you so much.”

Davey almost wants to kiss Jack, but he doesn’t know if it would be right. They’ve never tried that before— he has no clue if Jack would kiss him back or push him away.

“I love you too. I love you so fuckin’ much, Jack. I’m so happy for you.”

If this is truly the last time they’ll see each other, Davey knows he can’t leave this unfinished. If he doesn’t try, he’ll never know.

Slowly, he lifts Jack’s head from where it’s resting on his shoulder, holding his face once again. He closes his eyes because he can’t bear to watch this, and then he just goes for it.

It’s gentle, it’s careful, and Jack seems caught off-guard but not upset. It takes him a second, but he eventually starts to kiss back, much to Davey’s relief.

Davey pulls back for a moment, simply needing to get his head around this.

“Is this a kiss goodbye?”

After a long second, Jack nods, unable to meet Davey’s eyes. It’s quiet for a while, no more noise than the usual rumble of the city around them.

“Yeah… Yeah, it is.”

Davey takes a deep breath and nods, steadying himself a little.

“Alright. I guess… goodbye, then.”

Davey presses his lips to Jack’s once more, a little more firm and confident this time. It lasts a few moments— it’s like time stands still around them— and then just like that, it’s over.

It’s the middle of the night. Davey needs to get home, he’s already stayed out far too late. Jack has a train to catch in the morning, he’ll have get some sleep so he can wake up in time to catch it. The world has to keep on turning, even if they’d like to stay like this forever.

As Davey leaves the rooftop, he watches Jack for as long as he can. Jack doesn’t move or look up from the concrete roof below him.

“Goodbye, Jack,” says Davey as he climbs down the ladder, giving Jack one last look. “Good luck out there.”

Jack doesn’t respond, doesn’t look up. The last memory Davey is left with of him is the way he sits, curled into a ball, his shoulders shaking with silent tears.

This will pass, though. He’ll be happier out there— at least Davey hopes so. He’ll find something, somewhere, or even someone, and he’ll be happy.

Davey’s not sure he’ll ever be able to say the same for himself, without Jack here by his side.

 


	9. jomike - what it means to be ok

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it was sad boi hour. my apologies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1.2k; mike/jojo (can be looked at platonically or romantically!); warning for talking about a character death but it’s not explicitly described

It’s not real.

It _can’t_ be real, can it?

At least that’s what Mike is telling himself. He’s had nightmares of this before, and he’s almost fully certain that this is just another one of them.

He’s gonna wake up soon, and Ike is gonna be right there, telling him he’s got nothing to be scared of, that none of this was real. He’ll have his brother back, because they’re not supposed to be apart.

That’s how he knows this isn’t real— he’s never supposed to be away from Ike, they’re _twins_! It wouldn’t be right for the universe to just… separate them. For one of them to live and one of them to die just doesn’t make any sense, does it?

So for now, Mike is just going to sit and wait until he wakes up from the nightmare. He’s not going to act like this is real, because it can’t be.

And if it isn’t a dream, then maybe it’s a joke, he figures. It’s a rotten, cruel joke to play, but maybe Ike has all the fellas in on it, and pretty soon he’ll come out of wherever he’s hiding, laughing at the way Mike cried like a baby when he heard Ike was dead.

It wouldn’t be very nice of Ike to do that, but Mike would forgive him anyways. They’re brothers, he has to.

“Mikey?” It’s Jojo. Mike isn’t sure how long he’s been there, trying to talk to him. “C’mon, Mike. _Please_ look at me.”

Slowly, carefully, Mike does so. He’s been sitting in his bunk for ages, not responding to anyone, waiting for this all to be over. Maybe Jojo is here to break the news that it’s all been pretend. It’s been a whole day and a half now, it’s about time someone gave it up.

Jojo is hesitant before he continues, reaching carefully to touch Mike’s arm in an oddly gentle way. He waits until Mike is looking him in the eyes, waiting for him to speak.

“We’re, uh, gonna go lay him to rest soon, Mikey. I really…” He trails off into a sigh. “I really think you should come. The church gave us a nice little plot in the back, on account’a how he was always so nice to the nuns. They really liked him, they want him buried proper.”

Immediately, Jojo’s gentle touch feels anything but. His hand feels like it’s burning Mike’s skin, like he’s trying to hurt him. Something inside of Mike snaps, and all he can see is white-hot anger.

Mike rips his arm away from Jojo and scrambles backwards, backing himself up against the wall.

“Stop _lying_ to me!” he practically screams, his voice breaking with agony. This is first thing he’s spoken in the past two days and his throat hurts somethin’ awful. “Why are you all doing this!? It ain’t fair!”

As quickly as it had fogged up, Mike’s vision clears. He’s not sure he’s ever seen someone look as sad as Jojo does right now. Jojo has always been easy to read— he’s got very expressive eyes, and right now they’re showing pure heartbreak.

“I dunno what to say to you, Mike,” he whispers, and he reaches out like he wants to touch Mike again, but thinks better of it and pulls his hand back. “I… I don’t even wanna have to say it, but no one’s lying. This is real. We gotta go to your brother’s funeral. I’m so, so sorry. I can’t even imagine what you’re going through.”

Mike rubs at his eyes and shakes his head vehemently. It’s lies, all of this. It’s a sick, twisted joke that they’re all playing on him.

Suddenly, Jojo’s hand is on his arm again, burning him, and Mike just… loses it.

“ _Stop_!” he screams, shoving Jojo away. He clutches his knees to his chest and rocks himself back and forth on the bed. “You’re a liar! He’s not dead— he’s not, he’s not, he’s _not_! You’re all a bunch of rotten liars, I hate you!”

Mike has half a mind to continue ranting and raving, quite sure he’s actually become a bit insane, but he freezes when he hears a sniffle and a quiet sob.

Jojo— the one person who could nearly rival Ike for the position of Mike’s closest friend, the person he loves the most in the world— is now _crying_ because of Mike.

Mike’s not even sure what’s happening to him when he bursts into tears. He’s sure he’s totally, utterly lost his mind. He hides his face in his knees and lets out a horrible sob, the kind that borders on an anguished scream.

It’s quiet for a long time, both of them crying too hard to speak.

“God, Mikey,” Jojo finally whispers, his voice broken. He doesn’t yet try to touch Mike again, simply moves a little closer to him. “I wish so badly that I was lying, but you saw how sick he was. You saw when he couldn’t breathe anymore— you were there. You saw him, Mikey. Don’t you remember?”

Mike doesn’t shake his head again, doesn’t try to deny it. He just sobs a little harder because he doesn’t want to admit to just how real this is. It’s easier to keep on telling himself it’s all pretend, although he’s not sure how long he’ll be able to continue that. Keeping his head tucked down, he reaches blindly for Jojo.

“Hold my hand, Jo,” he croaks through his tears, “and tell me for certain that he’s gone. Say it— please just tell me for real that he’s dead, an’ I’m gonna believe you. I trust you.”

Slowly, Jojo intertwines their fingers and takes a deep breath.

“He’s dead, Mike.” He pauses for a long second and sighs shakily. “Ike is dead, and I need you to come with me so we can bury him. I wouldn’t ever lie to you.”

Mike slowly looks up and sees Jojo watching him closely with tears in his eyes. He looks so genuinely upset that Mike simply can’t keep convincing himself that he’s lying.

This is real.

“Okay,” he whispers, wiping furiously at his eyes with his hand that isn’t clinging to Jojo. He can’t get another word out, but he’s said enough. He slowly lets himself move closer to Jojo until their sides are pressed together. It doesn’t burn anymore.

“Can you come with me?” asks Jojo, after a few seconds of silence. “We… we built him a coffin, an’ we did our best to make a real funeral for him. The nuns gave us flowers and everything. All you gotta do is be there to say goodbye.”

Again, Mike can’t force a word out, but he nods.

Silently, Jojo squeezes his hand, and Mike squeezes back.

This isn’t a nightmare, this isn’t a dream, and Mike’s not sure he’s ever gonna be okay again. But somehow, having Jojo by his side starts to give him a tiny bit of hope.


	10. crunch - warm sweaters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous said: 24 with crutchie x finch (platonic or not)?
> 
> #24: warm sweaters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you say platonic, i raise you: married. 
> 
> crutchie/finch; 1k; no warnings just cuteness!

“Finchy, sweetheart, it’s _November_. What on earth are you doing?”

Crutchie has arrived home from work to see his husband dancing around their apartment to some jazzy rendition of _Jingle Bells_ , clearly in the middle of hauling out boxes of Christmas decorations.

“It’s the holiday season, baby!” yells Finch, throwing his hands in the air, letting a box of tinsel fly above his head and land on him, decorating his shoulders with Christmas cheer. He grins sheepishly as he knocks the empty cardboard box off of his head. “I know you had a really long week with work and shit, and I thought this might be a good way to unwind. ‘Cause, like, Thanksgiving is over, so it’s basically Christmas and we can decorate.”

Crutchie can’t even hold back his fond smile as he looks at his tinsel-covered husband. It’s their first Christmas as a married couple and they’re hoping that by next year they’ll have a third stocking to hang from the chimney, if the adoption process moves smoothly.

“This is ridiculous,” says Crutchie, shaking his head and laughing. He has, in fact, had a very long week— from just before Thanksgiving until after New Year’s is an absolutely insane time of year for any bakery, particularly one in the middle of Manhattan, with all the seasonal tourists looking for instagrammable snacks. “You’re crazy, you know.”

Finch just strikes a pose and winks, looking very much like a gangly, tall, strange Christmas tree.

“Crazy for _you_.” He holds the pose until Crutchie’s faux-unamused expression dissolves into a laugh. “Now come untangle lights while I build the tree! Oh hey— I found those awful sweaters my grandma made us last year, and I think we should take a picture in them to put on this year’s holiday card.”

Crutchie groans as he makes his way over to kiss Finch on the cheek and then sit down on the couch.

“Not to, like, insult your grandma but… those are _so bad,_ ” he sighs, hauling the box of lights onto his lap to start working out all the knots. “Do we have to?”

Finch is already leaned over, unpacking the fake pine tree they’ve been setting up every year since they moved in together.

“Wouldn’t it be funny though?” he says, and instead of standing up, he folds right in half to look between his legs and face Crutchie. “And anyways, I think you’d look cute.”

Crutchie just snorts and rolls his eyes.

“Call me cute again and I’ll kick your ass. I’m manly as _fuck_ ,” he says, grabbing a loose ornament from the couch and throwing it at Finch. “You’re the cute one here.”

Finch finally manages to rip off the packing tape that had been holding the tree’s box shut. He does so with a ridiculously dramatic, testosterone-filled yell, if only to be as un-cute as possible, and immediately stumbles backwards to land on his ass, right next to Crutchie’s feet.

It’s awkwardly quiet for a handful of seconds before they both just… lose it. They spend a good several minutes cackling because every time they start to recover, Finch will try to stand up, but his socked feet will fail him by slipping on the hardwood and he’ll fall once again. He eventually just leans onto Crutchie’s legs and whines pitifully through his laughter.

“Why am I so incompetent?” he giggles into Crutchie’s lap, literally crying with laughter. “I didn’t even get all the tape!”

Crutchie just ruffles his hair and fails to stop his own laughter.

“You’re doing great, baby,” he wheezes. “How the _fuck_ are we ever gonna be fathers?”

-

It takes well over an hour, but they finally get the tree all set up. There’s lights, tinsel, and a borderline-obnoxious amount of ornaments. While it’s tricky for Crutchie to get up and actually decorate, he’d done a fantastic job in directing Finch, and had even sat on his shoulders to place the star on top.

“Time to get those sweaters on, I guess,” says Finch, as they stand back to take in the finished product. He takes in Crutchie’s unamused expression and sighs. “One picture. You’ll survive.”

With a dramatic sigh, Crutchie grabs Finch’s arm and uses him to hoist himself to his feet. Rather than using his crutches around the apartment, sometimes Crutchie decides to use Finch for balance instead when it’s just short distances like this.

“Y’know,” he says as they walk, “we could probably tell your grandma at Christmas this year that we’ll need a baby-sized sweater for next year’s picture.”

The young mother that they’re adopting from is just four months pregnant now, so they’ll hopefully be celebrating Christmas with an eight month-old baby next year as long as everything works out. Pregnancies can be risky and adoption laws are touchy as hell, so there’s still a chance that it could all fall apart, but they’re growing more confident day by day that they’ll have their own family in no time.

“Oh my god,” says Finch, suddenly wrapping his arms around Crutchie and swinging him in a circle. “We’re starting our first family tradition! Charlie, this is for real! We’re gonna have a baby!”

Crutchie can’t help but laugh as he lands back on his feet and leans in for a kiss.

“God, I love you so much,” he says, cupping Finch’s cheeks softly. “I’m so excited to do every cheesy family thing with you, even if I have to wear a dumb sweater.”

Finch kisses him back with a near-crazy amount of enthusiasm.

“I can’t fucking wait to start new traditions with you. You don’t even understand how much I love you.”

They kiss once more and stay there for a while, until Crutchie pulls back with a sheepish grin.

“We’re really gonna have to stop cursing, aren’t we?”


	11. ralbert - i believe in you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> 93 with ralbert? Please?
> 
> #93: “I believe in you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1.7k; ralbert; canon era; no warnings just fluff!
> 
> (y’all out there don’t write enough canon era fluff i’m truly pulling the weight of this fandom. not everyone needs to get stabbed alright)

“I can’t _fucking_ do it. I’m too stupid for this.”

Race tosses the newspaper in his hands to the floor and crosses his arms over his chest, pouting like a child. He can hear Albert sigh, but he doesn’t look up to face him.

“Racer…” says Albert, leaning over to pick up the paper and set it back on Race’s lap. Race pushes it off and Albert sighs again. “You’re _not_ stupid.”

Race looks up at Albert with a frown. They’ve been sitting here for what feels like ages and they’ve accomplished absolutely nothing.

“Oh yeah?” snaps Race, with a note of bitterness in his tone. “Tell me what other sixteen year-old don’t know how to read, huh? A _stupid_ one.”

Albert seems to struggle with what to say for a moment, but he just looks _so sad_ that it breaks Race’s heart a little.

“I really hate that you think like that,” mumbles Albert, seeming genuinely upset, as if Race’s self-deprecating comment had personally offended him. “It ain’t your fault you have trouble with it— and hey, reading ain’t the only thing what makes a fella smart. I ain’t ever met someone who can do maths so fast as you, Racer. Even Elmer! And he likes numbers a whole lot, but he needs a pencil and paper to work it out. You just do it all in your head! I think that makes you real smart.”

Race’s frown wavers a little at the compliment. That’s true— he’s certainly got a brain for math. That’s how he’s so good at betting and all that; he can figure out the odds in his head. What he can’t understand, though, is how numbers make so much sense in his brain, and yet letters get all mixed up and on the page when he tries to read them.

“Maybe I ain’t meant to read, then,” sighs Race, grabbing the newspaper that he’d pushed to the floor and holding it up to stare at it with glaring contempt. “I won’t get upset if you don’t wanna waste your time anymore, Albie. This is pointless. I can’t do it. All the stupid letters look the fuckin’ same and I don’t know how anyone tells ‘em apart.”

Albert’s face falls, and he once again seems genuinely upset that Race has so little faith in himself. Even just the insinuation that this is a waste of time seems to have broken his heart.

Sometimes Race wishes more of the other fellas could see just how ridiculously _nice_ Albert is. They all call him grumpy, and lots of people seem to get the impression that he’s mean. Anyone who’s taken the time to get to know him, however, could tell you that he just gets overwhelmed when there’s too many people around, and he retreats into his shy, grumpy shell. He doesn’t take well to loud noises or being touched too much, both of which are very common occurrences among newsies. Albert isn’t a grump, really. He’s just on-edge and uncomfortable a lot of the time, when he’s surrounded by screaming, rambunctious boys— it’s got to be fair that he isn’t always in the best mood.

Hanging out one-on-one, though, when it’s quiet and calm, Albert is one of the sweetest, kindest people Race has ever met. He’s always gentle with his touches and with his words, and he never has anything but the most good-hearted intentions in everything he does. Honestly, he seems to border on rather naive sometimes, with the way that he’s just _so good_ , but that’s hardly a flaw. If anything, his sense of naivety is a good quality, seeing as he’s been through so many hard times and yet still sees the good in the world.

Race could go on for days about every one of Albert’s quirks that he so thoroughly adores. From the way he always starts to shake his hands and bounce on his toes when he gets excited, to the way he hates to look people in the eyes but he’ll make an exception for Race sometimes because he likes the colour of them— Race can admit that Albert is perhaps a bit odd, but in all the best ways.

“This ain’t a waste of _my_ time or _yours_ , Racer,” Albert finally says, his tone so earnest that Race even sort of starts to agree with him. “I know you don’t believe in yourself all that much, but _**I believe in you**_. I know you can do it if we just practice. Just try one more headline with me for today, okay? Then we can be done for the day and come back to to practicing tomorrow.”

Race sighs. As much as he hates reading, he can never say no to Albert. It’s getting late— some people are already off to bed; some had saved up their pennies to go see a moving picture and are still out; and others are just sitting around and chatting quietly. It had been an easy sell tonight, so everyone is happy to have a bit of free time before bed.

Race can’t say he’s particularly enjoying spending his free time trying to _read_ , but it makes Albert happy, so he’s willing to suffer through it.

“Fine,” he says, handing the newspaper over for Albert to pick an article for him to try. “Try and pick somethin’ easy, okay? I’m getting real tired of big words that I can’t figure out. Give me one you’d try to teach to a little kid, maybe.”

Albert flips through the pages for a moment, and Race just doesn’t get how he can read them all so fast. All the letters start to mix up with each other when he tries to go fast and he can’t figure out what anything is meant to say.

“This one’s good,” says Albert, leaning into Race’s side and pointing to a headline, which Race can tell is in the the weather section, going by the little illustrations of suns and clouds underneath. “Nice and short. Wanna try it by yourself or should we do it together?”

Race hesitates as he looks at the paper. He ought to give it a shot on his own, just to see, and then ask for help if he needs it. He’s never going to learn if Albert shows him everything.

“I’m gonna try,” says Race, and he hates how vulnerable he sounds. “Just… gimme some time to work it out.”

He takes the paper and stares at it for a moment, eerily aware of the fact that Albert is watching him closely.

“You got it, Racer,” says Albert, patting Race firmly on the shoulder. “I know you can do it.”

Just like Albert had shown him, Race puts his pointer finger under the first letter and focuses on figuring out what each letter is, one at a time, and then trying to push them together into sounds.

 _F-A-L-_ and then another _L_. That’s the first word. When he goes this slowly, the letters don’t jump and flip around as much. _F_ and _A_ make _fah_ , and then you add the _L_ s, and you get…

“Fall?” he asks, still pointing to the first word. This is the weather section as well, so that makes sense, seeing as it’s the start of September.

Albert’s face breaks into a grin and he high-fives Race enthusiastically. Race catches himself smiling just as wide, feeling rather proud of himself.

“That’s it, Race! You’re doin’ awesome.”

With a deep breath, Race focuses his attention back onto the newspaper. The next word only has two letters, so it shouldn’t be so bad. He slides his finger along and deduces that he’s looking at a _T_ and an _O_. Vowels are tricky because they can make different sounds and there never seems to be any rules about how to tell which sound it should be.

 _To_ like… _toe_? That doesn’t make any damn sense. _Fall toe_ … that’s certainly not right. So then it’s gotta be…

“ _To_ ,” he says, confidently. “Not _toe_ , it’s _to_ , right? Like… going to. It says: _Fall To_. Fall is going to.”

Albert nods happily and Race takes that rush of confidence to move onto the next word. They continue like this for a while, and it takes much longer than Race cares to admit, but he eventually deciphers the entire headline.

_Fall To Come Early This Year._

“Didn’t I say you could do it?” says Albert giddily, as Race throws the paper to the floor, this time in triumph rather than frustration. “I knew it!”

Race can see one of Albert’s hands flapping excitedly at his side— it’s a habit that he tries to hide for fear of people thinking it’s weird, but Race finds it entirely endearing. It shows that he’s genuinely happy.

“I ain’t ever met someone so patient as you, Albie,” says Race, for once dropping his sarcastic front and being totally genuine. “I… it means a lot that you’re willin’ to sit here for ages and help me. I always wanted to read but I gave up on learning ‘cause it’s just so hard… but it ain’t so bad when it’s you teaching me.”

Race is caught slightly off-guard when Albert envelopes him in a tight hug. He laughs quietly and returns the gesture, squeezing tightly around his best friend.

“I’m so happy to help. I’m so glad you wanna try,” says Albert, and out of the blue, he presses a little kiss to Race’s cheek. Race tries to fight the blush rising on his cheeks, but unfortunately his pale complexion isn’t on his side today. “You did amazing, Racer. We’re gonna have you reading in no time.”

Race presses a cheeky kiss to the side of Albert’s face in return, and then he’s perfectly happy to remain in the hug and rest his head on his best friend’s shoulder.

Maybe this wasn’t as much of a waste of time as he’d expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case you didn’t catch it, i tried giving albert some autistic traits here, inspired by [sorry i can’t insert the link]! i think it’s really important to show autistic characters in different lights, especially to see someone in the role of a teacher rather than being portrayed as dumb! i also tried to hint at race having some mild dyslexia, but i’m definitely no expert so i’m sorry if it’s not quite right!


	12. ralbert - help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> RALBERT 26 PLEASE
> 
> #26: a weak, fragile “help”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ralbert; modern era; 1.3k; TW: discussion of character death, discussion of suicide (PLEASE don’t read it if you think it will upset you! i swear i’d like to put it under the cut but i’m on mobile! just scroll past!!!)

“It doesn’t ever stop hurting, does it?”

Albert feels his face fall into a frown as he looks up at Race.

They’ve been sitting quietly in their apartment tonight, both absorbed in other activities but totally conscious of the other’s presence. Albert himself has been reading— he’d hated literature of any kind all throughout school, but he’s become a bit of a bookworm as a young adult. Growing up, man. It’s crazy. Race had been working on something for school, typing away on his laptop, but he’s now just staring blankly at the screen, looking utterly defeated.

“I really don’t think it does,” says Albert, softly, closing his book and setting it to the side. “I think you just learn to live with it.”

Race shuts his computer and lets it slide off of his lap, not seeming to care about the way it thuds as it hits the floor.

“Don’t know if I _can_ live with it,” he mumbles, before sniffling and wiping at his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie. He’s not often quiet and vulnerable like this and it breaks Albert’s heart. “It’s all I can think about. I can’t focus on anything else.”

Albert sighs and moves a little closer to Race because he simply doesn’t know what to say. All he knows is that they both probably need a good hug right now.

It’s been a month since they got the news about Jack. The call from Davey, where they’d found out that Jack had taken his own life. It’s been three weeks since the funeral, two weeks since people stopped sending condolences and sympathy gifts. It’s been a week since Race tried going back to school, but he’s clearly still struggling.

He and Jack were brothers. Maybe not by blood, or by any legal sense of the term, but they had a bond. They’d grown up together, fought their way through the foster system as a couple of abandoned kids who didn’t have anyone else. They made it through some of the most difficult circumstances imaginable, and they did it _together_. Albert has never known two people closer than Race and Jack were.

That’s why this is so hard. Even though Race and Jack were so incredibly close, Race hadn’t known that Jack was even _thinking_ of doing this. It had been a total shock to everyone.

“I understand, baby,” whispers Albert as he slides his arms around Race to pull him into a hug. Race accepts it immediately, latching himself onto Albert’s side. “It takes time. It won’t stop hurting… but it gets easier. It hurts a little less, and it gets easier to manage. It never really stops, though. I’m sorry.”

Race hides his face in Albert’s neck and squeezes him tightly. Albert can tell he’s trying not to cry, so it’s probably better not to say anything more. They just sit there, holding each other in silence, because there’s nothing else they can do at this point.

This grief is all too familiar to Albert. He’d lost his mother when he was ten— old enough to understand what suicide was, but not nearly old enough to fathom why she would do it. He’d spent years wondering why, asking himself and God and every power out there what he could’ve done differently to make her stay.

He’s come to accept that there was nothing he could’ve done. Nothing for his mother, nothing for Jack. Depression is an illness, and it preys on whoever it likes. Some people lose the battle, and there’s a point where you just have to accept that as a fact of life.

They’ve been sitting quietly for several minutes when Race suddenly sobs into Albert’s neck.

They have a lot of nights like this— where all they can do is grieve and try to hold each other together. Albert hates how this has become routine.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he whispers, gently brushing his fingers through the short hairs at the back of Race’s neck. Race is crying hard now, and there’s nothing Albert can do. “You’re okay. It’s gonna be okay. Just breathe, baby.”

Race shakes his head and nearly chokes on another sob.

“I can’t. Fuck, I can’t. **_Help_** , Albie. I can’t _breathe_.”

Carefully, Albert pulls Race out from where he’d been hiding his face, and cups his cheeks in both hands. Their faces are close together and Race’s tears are running down into Albert’s palms. Race averts his eyes, trying not to make contact with Albert’s, but Albert holds him there until he does it.

“Breathe with me,” says Albert, rather firmly, keeping his eyes locked with his boyfriend’s. Race looks terribly panicked, but he nods jerkily. “We’re gonna inhale for five, and exhale for eight. Try it with me.”

Slowly, Albert inhales deeply, watching to make sure Race is following along. He then blows the air out through his mouth, nodding encouragingly as Race does the same. They continue like this for several breaths, until Race is calm enough to wipe the tears from his eyes and speak again.

“I just miss him,” he whispers, his voice shaking. “If I could just talk to him one more time… maybe I could’ve helped him.”

Albert sighs deeply.

“He was sick, sweetheart,” he says, trying to be as gentle with his words as he can. “Anything that anyone could’ve told him… it couldn’t change that. He didn’t _want_ to die, Tony. There was something wrong,” Albert lets go of Race’s face with one hand to tap at his temple, “up here that made him think that. Something telling him that’s what he had to do, something he couldn’t help. The worst thing you can do right now is tell yourself you could’ve saved him. It’s like… saying that maybe if you said the right thing to someone with cancer, the tumour would stop growing. You can’t make yourself responsible for this. It’s not something you could change.”

This seems to resonate with Race and he’s quiet for a moment, his eyes searching Albert’s face for… something, though it seems even he’s not sure what. There’s a long pause before he speaks again.

“You’ve been through this before, haven’t you?” asks Race, softly, catching Albert off guard. Race carefully pushes Albert’s remaining hand from his face and instead takes both his hands in his own. “You’ve lost someone like this.”

Slowly, carefully, Albert nods.

“My mom,” he whispers, after a moment. He finally breaks their eye contact, his gaze dropping to his lap. “This is how we lost her. Suicide. It doesn’t stop hurting, Racer. I still miss her.”

Albert looks up in time to see Race’s face just _fall_ into sadness and sympathy and guilt and that god-awful grief they’ve been fighting through for the past month.

“ _Baby_ …” he whispers. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I— I shouldn’t have brought it up like that. I’m sorry.”

Before Race can ramble any further, Albert cuts him off with a quick kiss.

“It’s okay,” he says, upon pulling back. “It’s been over a decade… it hurts, but I’m at peace with it. And I know you’ll make your peace with this. It’ll take time, and you’ll miss him every day, but I _promise_ that one day it won’t hurt as bad.” He swallows thickly, still sort of trying not to cry. “Do you trust me?”

Race nods. There’s still tears in his eyes— maybe the both of them just need to cry together for a while— but he forces a semblance of a small smile.

“I do,” he says, and then he’s reinitiating their hug from before. “Thank you, Albie. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Albert slides his arms around Race and squeezes him tight, a little too overwhelmed by this whole discussion to even say anything.

He’s not sure what he’d do without Race either.


	13. ralbert - FRIENDS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> iwilldevourthebodies asked:  
> Hi hi if you did albert and race with misc 1 i would be vv happy tysm
> 
> #1: “some of us want to sleep, y'know? some of us don’t invite friends over {watch FRIENDS} at absurd times of night, because not all of us are nocturnal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i took some liberties with the prompt lol
> 
> ralbert; modern au; 1k; just pure friends to lovers fluff!!!

“Do you _ever_ sleep?”

Race looks up from his phone as his roommate, Albert enters the kitchen. He’s in his pyjamas and looks rather groggy, so Race slides a pre-prepared cup of coffee across the table to him— their regular morning peace offering.

“What are you talking about?” asks Race, only slightly ashamed of his nocturnal habits. “I slept all night!”

The glare on Albert’s face tells Race that he might not be a very good liar.

“I woke up every twenty minutes,” seethes Albert, “to the sound of you clapping along to the FRIENDS theme song. For _hours_. How the fuck do you look so well-rested? You were up ‘til four AM!”

Race can do nothing more than wince and shrug. He hadn’t thought he was being that loud. He just wasn’t tired!

To be fair, he’d dozed off in a quiet zone of the campus library for most of the afternoon while trying to do homework, which would probably explain why he wasn’t tired at bedtime. He’d tried to do his work while watching TV all night to make up for it, but he really hadn’t accomplished much.

“I’m a vampire,” he giggles, before baring his teeth and hissing dramatically at Albert. “I haven’t slept in a thousand years.”

Albert just rolls his eyes and finally takes the coffee Race made him.

“Explains why you’re so dead inside,” he grumbles, while sitting down to join Race at the table. “But, okay, I’m serious. _**Some of us want to sleep, y'know? Some of us don’t watch FRIENDS at absurd times of night, because not all of us are nocturnal.**_ Some of us need our beauty sleep— not that you’d know anything about that.”

Race sticks his tongue out, affronted.

“You wish you had my youthful glow, old man,” he teases, always quick to point out that he’s a whole four months younger than Albert. “Anyways, there’s no way my clapping was loud enough to wake you up— you’re just blaming me for your insomnia. If you _really_ can’t sleep, just come watch with me. I don’t mind.”

Albert’s mouth twists in a way that says there was some truth to Race’s statement, but he’ll probably never actually accept that offer.

“No way,” he says. “I’ll let you keep your vampire habits to yourself— just do them quietly, please.”

-

_So no one told you life was gonna be this way…_

Race drops his pencil onto his notebook to free up his hands to instinctively clap along. He’s at it again— trying to do homework and watch tv at the same time in the middle of the night, and he’s now introduced eating cereal into the mix. He’s truly a multitasker.

He sighs as he picks his pencil back up and stares at the equation in front of him.

_√(y² + xy) = x²y + 7_

It’s that stupid 7. He must’ve made a mistake in his data, or while he was setting up his equation, because he just can’t solve this. It would be simple without the 7, but it’s there and now the equation is unsolvable. He’s going to have to differentiate this or something, and then try to figure out how to plug the fucking derivative into the rest of his work instead of a real solution and—

“Hey.”

He looks up to see Albert opening the door, wrapped in a blanket. He looks tired and grouchy, as per usual, and Race instantly fears that maybe Albert had been serious about him being too loud.

“I’ll turn it down,” says Race, immediately. “Sorry, and I’ll try to stop clapping. I can’t really help it though.”

To Race’s surprise, Albert laughs.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, leaning in the doorway. “You were right, I’m just having seriously bad insomnia. I was wondering if the offer to join you for a while still stands?”

Race’s eyes go wide. He’s sitting here on the floor, looking like a total mess, and now his insanely hot roommate wants to hang out with him. Sure, they hang out all the time during the day, but this is nighttime. It’s, like, intimate. _What the fuck_.

“Yeah!” he says, probably a bit too eagerly. “But you might want to bring a bowl.” He gestures to the cereal and milk on his desk. “This type of activity calls for Cheerios.”

-

It becomes their thing— sitting in Race’s room late at night, watching FRIENDS episodes and trying to do homework but mostly getting distracted by talking to each other.

After a few weeks of this, during which they begin to get to know each other incredibly well, Race quietly, carefully comes out. It had taken him a while to come to terms with it, and Albert is one of the few people he’s finally comfortable telling.

Albert handles it in such a typical fashion that Race can’t even be mad at his bluntness— the oblivious asshole simply says: “Oh, don’t worry man. I suck dick in my free time. You’re fine.”

With the tension broken, they suddenly become more comfortable with each other. The late-night talks slowly become late-night cuddles. Albert eventually stops going back to his own room when he gets tired, choosing just to stay in Race’s bed with him.

They slowly, easily, move from being roommates to best friends to lovers, without even realizing it’s happening.

And somehow, through all of this, they never stop clapping along to the FRIENDS song at absurd hours of the night. It’s their thing.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Hey so for the new holiday prompts? I'm feeling some blink/much but idk what prompt to use it for so like??? Please and thank???
> 
> prompt: Person A still believes in Santa. Person B signs all their presents from Santa to keep the magic alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1.5k; blush; modern era; no warnings!

“Mush, babe, what are you doing?”

Blink and Mush have spent their Christmas Eve cuddled on the couch together, watching movies. It’s their first Christmas living together, so they’ve been happy to just enjoy each other’s company for the evening, no need for elaborate plans. They’ll go to Mush’s parents place tomorrow for dinner, and they had a friendsmas brunch with their whole squad today, so tonight is all about the two of them.

Now that it’s beginning to get late and they’re both growing tired, Mush has suddenly shot off of the couch and begun to rummage around the kitchen. After a few long, concerning seconds of silence, he emerges carrying a glass of milk and a plate full of cookies.

“I almost forgot to leave treats for Santa,” he says, seeming genuinely concerned. “Why didn’t you remind me, asshole?”

Blink watches his boyfriend for a moment, waiting for him to crack and burst into laughter, but there’s nothing. Mush puts the plate and the glass down next to the tree, smiles at them, and then rejoins Blink on the couch, no hint of a joke anywhere in his expression.

 _What_.

“Wait, Mush, are you really—?”

Blink cuts himself off. He can’t just _ask_ if Mush believes in Santa, because if he does, just that question might ruin the magic. If this is actually happening, which Blink is pretty damn sure it is, he’s not about to crush his boyfriend’s pure, sweet heart.

“Am I really what?” asks Mush, obliviously. He’s now settled himself back into Blink’s side like nothing ever happened. “Do you not normally leave out cookies and milk for him? He gets hungry working all night, y'know.”

Blink panics, trying to think of a coverup, and simply says the first thing that comes to mind.

“Are you really not gonna leave carrots for the reindeer? They get hungry too. Do we even have any?”

Mush’s face lights up like— for lack of a better comparison— a Christmas tree.

“You’re a genius!” he says, jumping off the couch and making a beeline for the kitchen. “I’ve never even thought of that before!”

Crisis averted, at least for now.

 _Holy shit._ Blink’s going to have to play Santa. What the fuck. He’s going to have to sneak out of bed, like he used to in the boy’s home that he grew up in, and leave gifts out that are apparently from Santa. The illusion had been broken for him fairly young, surrounded by older boys who seemed to take pleasure in ruining it for the younger ones, but as he’d become one of the older boys he’d always tried to keep the magic intact for the little kids. They couldn’t really afford much for presents, but Blink, with help from Jack and Race, was sure to always leave a candy bar or something out for all the little guys.

Blink briefly questions how Mush could’ve possibly lived this long without realizing the truth, but when he actually thinks about it, this sort of makes sense.

Mush’s family is… big. He’s the oldest of four biological siblings, five adoptive, and a near constant stream of foster siblings coming and going for as long as they need a temporary, loving home. He’s always spent Christmas in a house full of kids— it’s possible that no one ever even thought to break the news to him, at risk of one of his younger siblings overhearing.

“I don’t think we have any carrots!” calls Mush from the kitchen. “Do you think they like cucumber?”

Blink can’t help but snort-laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.

“I betcha they do,” he replies, wrapping his blanket a little tighter around his shoulders. He’s been wearing his eyepatch all day and the tension of it is starting to give him a headache, so he slides it off and tosses it down on the couch. “Any veggies are good, I’d say.”

It’s quiet for a while, other than the sound of Mush chopping up cucumber. Blink quietly contemplates his own existence, because as ridiculous as this is, it’s really not all that surprising. Mush is just… like this.

“Wanna head to bed soon?” asks Mush as he walks back in with a little plate of cucumber slices. He sits back down next to Blink on the couch and kisses high on his cheekbone, right next to his bad eye. Blink doesn’t typically like for anyone to see his clouded-over, glassy, blind eye, but Mush for some reason likes to see him without the eyepatch. He always says _it’s just as beautiful as the rest of you_. Blink isn’t sure how he got so lucky. “You look tired.” Mush pauses, and then a mischievous look spreads across his face. “Say… you want an early Christmas present?”

Blink can feel himself flush bright red as Mush raises his eyebrows.

“Fuck, okay,” he mumbles, not sure why he always gets so shy about this stuff. They stand up hand-in-hand, and Mush quickly leads them to their bedroom. “Yeah… early presents sound good.”

-

It’s three o’clock in the morning, and Blink is sliding out of bed, careful to move as quietly as possible.

What the fuck is he going to leave out as a gift from Santa? He’d been planning to get up and fill Mush’s stocking for him anyways, as they’d just put them up for decoration and Blink wanted to surprise him, so he’s got some chocolates and whatnot lying around. But everything else? He’s got no idea what to do.

He not only now has to fill _both_ their stockings, to keep it realistic, but he’ll have to figure out some presents.

_Think, Blink. What the hell would Santa leave a couple of twenty year-olds with no money? Probably something real nice, but that’s just not gonna happen._

Suddenly… inspiration strikes. Blink has to stop himself from jumping up and down in excitement, and he rushes off to the closet where he’d carefully hidden some of the presents he’d bought and not had time to wrap yet.

This one was technically to give to Mush’s parents, but he’d gotten them a couple of things and this had only been part of it. He sneaks it out of its hiding spot, sits down at the kitchen table with it, and begins to write.

-

“Oh my god… this is insane.”

They’ve just climbed out of bed and Mush is standing in the entry to the living room, wide-eyed and smiling.

“What?” questions Blink, leaning onto Mush’s shoulder and then kissing him on the cheek. “You didn’t think the old man was coming? We left out cookies and everything!”

Mush finally walks forward and picks up the wrapped gift on the floor, addressed: _To Louis and Michael, from Santa._

“I always sort of thought it was actually my parents,” he whispers, turning the box over in his hands as if he can’t believe it’s real. He laughs incredulously. “I… holy shit. It’s true?”

Blink does nothing more than shrug and smile coyly.

“I guess so,” he says. “What do you say we open it?”

Together, they rip the wrapping paper off and toss it all over the floor. The bewilderment on Mush’s face makes every bit of how exhausted Blink is from getting up in the middle of the night fade away in an instant.

“A photo album…” whispers Mush, holding it up to show Blink. He opens it to the first page and his shining eyes dart back and forth as he reads the message on the inside of the cover. “Oh my god.”

_Louis and Michael,_

_My apologies, boys, but you’re going to have to do some of the work yourselves for this year’s present! I have a challenge for you:_

_You have one year to fill this book with as many memories and as much happiness as possible. I expect to be able to look through it when I stop by next Christmas Eve and see all the joy you’ve brought each other!_

_Merry Christmas and good luck!_

_Sincerely,_

_Santa Claus_

Blink can’t help but wrap an arm around Mush and grin.

“Looks like we’ve got work to do,” he says. “We’ve got a lot of pictures to take.”

Mush is close to tears now, and he leans over to kiss Blink on the cheek. He looks nearly the happiest Blink has ever seen him and that alone almost makes Blink believe in Christmas magic.

“This is amazing,” says Mush, holding Blink tightly and sighing happily. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” whispers Blink. “ _So_ much. You have no fucking idea.”


End file.
